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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040926">HEARTBREAK</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Introverted_Survivalist/pseuds/Introverted_Survivalist'>Introverted_Survivalist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Trolls (2016), Trolls World Tour (2020), Trolls: The Beat Goes On (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cancer, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Leukemia, Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, They’re Still Trolls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:34:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,440</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Introverted_Survivalist/pseuds/Introverted_Survivalist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-year-old Branch Woods, diagnosed with cancer, pays for Poppy Kingsley’s acute leukemia treatement and his own by working his part-time jobs.</p><p>When he realizes that he doesn’t have more time on his hands until his own passing, it’s his duty to make sure Poppy makes it out alive—even if he doesn’t.</p><p>Time doesn’t seem to be on their side.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Branch/Poppy (Trolls), Branch/Queen Poppy (Trolls)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Poppy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandelionCares/gifts">DandelionCares</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tealbull81/gifts">Tealbull81</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, big surprise! I already have this whole story planned out. Don’t know how it’s gonna work, but hey. Hospital AUs.</p><p>This story was inspired by Tealbull81’s FAILURE, go check it out, it’s a great fic!</p><p>Here we go!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>“How much pain does it take to kill you?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>These were the words that had burst from between Poppy Kingsley’s pale lips, her feeble form curled up on the bed while extracting a sample of her bone marrow.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t scream—it was almost as if she didn’t have the strength to do so. Her body simply trembled on top of the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>After the bone marrow aspiration begun, Branch would wish that she would at least cry out, scream. Scream just like all the others did. It would satisfy him, at least. No, he wished she could just lose her mind. That way, she wouldn’t have to feel so much pain, and then she’d at least let a tear fall.</p><p> </p><p>She screamed, just as if she had heard his thoughts—but her merely turned his head towards the window. It wasn’t just because of the tears that threatened to pour down his cheeks. He wanted to pretend that he hadn’t heard. Maybe just leave the room and run far, far away.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy’s screams didn’t seem so friendly anymore.</p><p> </p><p>The troll extracting her bone marrow stopped briefly, and it seemed as if time itself had paused. He moved his gaze towards the doctor, a rather large man with gentle hands, who simply stared straight towards the needle impaling her body.</p><p> </p><p>Her pale lips moved to forge words once more.</p><p> </p><p>“I wish it didn’t hurt anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Bone marrow—only something that can be extracted by penetrating the area between the hip bones. The patient screams, and it’s visual torture for the one watching from the side, powerless without anything they can do to stop it. Poppy had had to go through such agony four times after being readmitted. Not knowing how many more she’d have to endure, it made Branch feel completely miserable.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>If only I could take her place, if only I could suffer instead…</i>
</p><p> </p><p>But there was nothing he could do for her. Watching her writhing in so much pain, he was angry at the fact that he was a friend. He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to be called a friend. He couldn't even meet her eyes without feeling anxious. </p><p> </p><p>She never complained. Nevertheless, countless times, he would face them anyway. In her face distorted by pain, in handfuls of anticancer drugs…</p><p> </p><p>The doctor nudged the pair of thin-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose and cleared his throat. A moment later, his hand was placed gently on Poppy’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“I know the needle hurts, it’ll be over soon, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not the needle, I mean it. I wish it didn’t hurt anymore. Shouldn’t this much pain have killed me by now? If I die, it would all go away.”</p><p> </p><p>Anyone could have seen the resignation in her tired expression. It was an expression that only people who’ve suffered countless times in life could possibly make. She was only nineteen.</p><p> </p><p>Just because once the night was over the morning came didn’t mean time was impartial for all of them. Just one day could’ve been longer than a lifetime for anyone.</p><p> </p><p>“Think of hurting as… your body winning a fight against all the leukemia.” The doctor offered with a comforting smile. “If you hold on just a little longer, you’ll win the battle.”</p><p> </p><p>And Poppy Kingsley, still young and childish as ever, seemed to take this as an acceptable answer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>That had been merely an hour ago.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Branch looked up towards the heavens and felt around the pocket of his shorts for a cigarette—he couldn’t find any. For some reason, it made him look back towards the window to Poppy’s ward. After the bone marrow extraction, she had fallen into a deep sleep from the meds she had been given—it was questionable if the drugs and painkillers even worked at this point.</p><p> </p><p>He stood from the bench and started walking. He didn’t go too far—Branch stopped at a place where he knew Poppy couldn’t see him if she wanted and leaned against the wall of the hospital building. </p><p> </p><p>The rain kept pouring down, drenching him and the world around him, beating against his lonely soul. He felt his legs give out underneath him as he slowly slid onto the ground, back pressed firmly against the wall. He buried his head in his hands, then his head between his knees.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a year since he had been diagnosed with liver cancer.</p><p> </p><p>He had tried ignoring the constant nausea and vomiting, the sharp jabs of pain in his stomach that felt like a knife to his abdomen. It became a routine when he found himself curled up on the cold, tile floors in the bathroom off his apartment, bile in the toilet as his limbs spasmed almost uncontrollably. Working his part-time job for his rent and dealing with schoolwork was enough, what more did he need to know?</p><p> </p><p>When he saw the black and blue veins crisscrossing underneath his skin over his belly, he knew something was wrong.</p><p> </p><p>And the very day he was given the faithful news, he happened to be passing by the hall and his eyes meeting with this pink-haired troll sitting up in her bed inside her ward.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Hi.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>That one word somehow brought him back to this girl, every single time he came back for treatments. And he grew to know her name was Poppy Kingsley. That she loved popsicles and cotton candy. That she adored kittens. That she didn’t have a favorite color—she loved them all.</p><p> </p><p>And he grew to love her.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, he didn’t tell her what exactly what was wrong with him, because his situation seemed like nothing compared to what Poppy had.</p><p> </p><p>He learned Poppy’s father, her only living family member, had passed just an year before her fateful diagnosis. And that she was barely paying her treatments with the money she had saved up for art college.</p><p> </p><p>Branch didn’t know why and how he had started doing it, but from then, he began paying for Poppy’s chemotherapy and his own combined. One job turned into three shifts, five hours of sleep turned into three. He did anything for money, and still would’ve. Anything for Poppy.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Doc, how much would it save me if I stopped my chemotherapy treatment?”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“... I wouldn’t recommend that, Branch.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>How much pain <i>did</i> it take for it to all end? And could the end ever be anything besides death?</p><p> </p><p>Recently, there would be this one thought that kept popping into his mind no matter how hard he tried to push it away. It wrapped around his frame like a whisper meant to lure and trap him, suffocate him to death.</p><p> </p><p>That if the true way to help Poppy, was not to force her through such incessant treatment but to just let her go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Tossing The Dice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Second chapter! I promise there will be more interactions between Branch and Poppy soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Branch still remembered his own father.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t remember the exact day it had happened—but he remembered it had been freezing cold. Even if he didn’t know when it was, he could certainly recall <i>where</i>.</p><p> </p><p>Branch had opened his eyes to the sound of ear-splitting sirens. The sirens, a signal for off-duty miners when an accident occurred in the barracks. His father had been working that night.</p><p> </p><p>Two days and nights later, it turned out his father was the only survivor of the five buried within the ruins of the mines. His left leg had disappeared, only to replaced by a plastic prosthetic.</p><p> </p><p>He was fired from the mining business after receiving his six months’ salary. His mother began taking the earliest trains to the market to return on the last train of the day—Branch wasn’t too sure for how long her business had lasted. All he knew was that one day, she took the first train and never came back.</p><p> </p><p>His father drank booze in the morning, and then at night. He’d come home drunk, and Branch remembered hiding in the closet, knees pulled to his chest as he begged that the man wouldn’t find him, tiny body wracking with silent sobs.</p><p> </p><p>It had come to a surprise when his father bought two train tickets—he didn’t know for what purpose at first. And he sat across from the older troll, rocking back and forth on his haunches rather nervously.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Are you hungry, my boy?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>He had nodded, and before he knew it, he was stuffing pieces of steak into his mouth—it was undercooked, and the meat was old, but his seven-year-old self couldn’t have cared less.</p><p> </p><p>After that one meal, he turned back to his father to see the warmest smile he had ever seen—a smile that Branch wished he could have seen more often.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“How was it?”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“Good.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>His father spilled a handful of tiny pills from a yellow bag into Branch’s palm. He did the same to himself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Now that we’re done, we can take our vitamins.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>But he couldn't do as his father said. He knew that it was rat poison that used to be in corner of the kitchen on top of leftovers. The twitching and writhing of dying rats on the kitchen floor.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Just swallow.”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“Father, this is rat poison.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t say anything for a long while, simply stared straight at him with lifeless, unfocused eyes. The pill in his hand mixed with his sweat and had begun melting.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“You don’t want it?”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“I don’t want to die.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>His father took the poison from his hand and leaned back against his seat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“I can’t deal with any of this bullshit anymore—you're on your own.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Those had been the last words he had heard from his own father.</p><p> </p><p>Branch didn’t know back then what it meant to ‘be on his own’. But he did know that he wouldn’t live a life like his father’s. And for some odd reason, he couldn’t bring himself to eat anymore steak either.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t understand the man.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t want to understand him. No, he <i>hated him</i>. He tried to erase his father from his memory. Because he had been right about one thing: the world was a cruel place where you had to survive on your own.</p><p> </p><p>He thought he had forgot his father for a long time. But there were moments when he just reappeared in his mind as if someone were turning the page of an old photo album. </p><p> </p><p>Every day as Poppy’s treatment continued, he somehow found himself thinking of his parents. Her condition always fluctuated on a daily basis. If she seemed fine for a day, she’d deteriorate the next. On fortunate days, he could spend the day carefree—if not, the tide of emotions swept in and at the end of the day, he would end up smoking a cigarette outside the bland, suffocating walls of the hospital, trying to burn all the worries away. Flick them away like ashes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>If only it were that simple.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>She was the center of his life. It was almost like how planets revolved around the sun. If Branch lost Poppy, he knew he’d spiral out of control. He would lose one of his reasons to live and fight and strive.</p><p> </p><p>But then she had asked. Asked how much pain it took to die. Asked if the pain she had endured should’ve killed her by now. </p><p> </p><p>After leaving the ward that day after her treatment, he began thinking.</p><p> </p><p>How close was he, who only helplessly watched his dear friend writhe in agony, from becoming his father, who, years ago, had tried to take his life along with his own? Like his father who had limped away, leaving his own son at the police station, was he already turning his back on the one troll he loved more than anyone in the world, leaving her at death’s door?</p><p> </p><p>He was a <i>terrible</i> person.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Woods, this is the second time you’ve missed the date.”</p><p> </p><p>Sky Toronto dropped the papers and the bill on the table, the pen falling to the floor in the process. It rolled across the tiles and stopped at Branch’s feet. He slightly bent to pick it up, and he could feel the troll’s eyes burning holes into his back.</p><p> </p><p>He set the pen back down on the desk.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“A simple ‘sorry’ won’t cover it.”</p><p> </p><p>Branch removed his gaze from the older glitter troll to the bills—Sky Toronto was currently drawing continuous circles on the bottom of the paper. The amount due to be paid every five days seemed to have doubled.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, I know. I’m sure you have your own reasons. But you never pay on your due date.”</p><p> </p><p>Never? There was no necessary need to exaggerate, really—only twice had he missed the date within a year. Though he didn’t have much, he poured his money into hospital bills. Nevertheless, it was none of Toronto’s business anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“I'll take care of it quickly.”</p><p> </p><p>“When, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>“It should be possible until the next settlement.”</p><p> </p><p>“Possible? We let you off the hook more than once, and I think we’ve done enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“... Listen, a long-term patient in the hospital like yours may be under a lot of pressure. But we think it's right to do this for our caregivers. Suppose you can’t pay once, then it’s delayed the second time. Wouldn't it be too much to handle then? Anyway, you have to keep your word.”</p><p> </p><p>Toronto tapped his pen against the desktop. <i>Tap, tap, tap.</i></p><p> </p><p>“If it’s not kept, we have only one decision left to make.”</p><p> </p><p>“What decision?”</p><p> </p><p>“This means we have no choice but to stop Ms. Kingsley’s treatment. None of us want that to happen, but… I can’t guarantee it, now, can I?”</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>══════════════════</p>
</div><p> </p><p>How much would Poppy last if he gave up on her chemotherapy?</p><p> </p><p>Three months. Six months at most.</p><p> </p><p>When he had started his own cancer treatment, it had only been two days since Poppy’s admittance. And as he grew closer with her, and along with her chemo sessions, he knew how painful the process could be. He remembered asking her doctor: isn’t there another way? However, Doctor Biggie was adamant.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Without chemotherapy, she won’t last a year. With anti-cancer treatment, she can last more… but there’s always a fifty-fifty percent chance of a relapse.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>One year had flown with hospitalization,  discharges, and hospital bills. In any case, as the doctor had said, chemotherapy had kept her alive until today. But if they stopped the treatment now, after making it this far…</p><p> </p><p>As he headed towards the café where he’d meet up with Barb, switching between buses and subway trains, he pondered over Toronto’s so-called final decision. It clawed like a beast inside him, the thought embedded into his heart like an invisible thorn.</p><p> </p><p>Arriving at the promised teahouse, Barb raised her hand to let him notice her presence. As soon as Branch sat at the other side of the table, she squinted and blinked.</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you feeling a bit too stuffy in that?”</p><p> </p><p>Branch gave her a questioning look, and Barb shook her head before nodding towards the window at the walking passersby. “Look outside and tell me who else is wearing a jumper at the moment. It’s the middle of July—I guess you forgot how fast time flies.”</p><p> </p><p>He gingerly reached up to feel the back of his neck, noticing it was drenched and sticky with sweat—he offered Barb a sheepish smile as he shrugged off his jumper and set it down on his laptop. </p><p> </p><p>“Dude, you look like total shit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Geez, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, man. I mean it.” She shook her head. “You don’t look well. And you’ve clearly lost weight. Don’t overdo it… I know Popsqueak’s important to you, but ya need time to take care of <i>yourself.</i>” Barb tapped her fingers against the mug with each syllable for emphasis. “Get a check-up, maybe. Your own treatment is hard enough against you.”</p><p> </p><p>He let out a hollow chuckle as he dragged his pre-ordered cup of tea over—the steam that once supposedly rose was long gone. “I’d do all that if I had the time, believe me.”</p><p> </p><p>Barb took a sip of her coffee and cleared her throat. “So, how’s she doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, same as usual.”</p><p> </p><p>“What sort of shitty hospital does she get her treatment done at? It relapsed, didn’t it? Ever considered moving to someplace else?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the cancer cells that are persistent, it’s not because of the hospital. They do the best they can.”</p><p> </p><p>“I heard leukemia for people her age had a high chance of getting better.”</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t relapse again.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s what he wanted to believe. No, he did believe. There would be no more relapses. <i>He hoped.</i></p><p> </p><p>“By the way, Branch?” Barb wiped a thumb at a small smudge of dirt on her forearm. “You should get a haircut. Like I said, it’s summer. You’re gonna turn that thing into a mullet.”</p><p> </p><p>Poppy hated getting haircuts. From what she had told him, she had a weird fear of the hairdresser cutting off her ears instead.</p><p> </p><p>The chemotherapy had taken a toll on her—her hair (which she loved so dearly) was slowly falling out. Common aftermaths of the treatment. She wasn’t completely bald yet, and still had a healthy amount of pink on her head. Poppy no longer looked at the mirror with a frown, but every single time, a smile. She’d always turn to him with a snicker. <i>Please tell me I’ll look like Dwayne Johnson, Branch.</i></p><p> </p><p>“Hey, um, I’m deputy director of the company now. I got a promotion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Congratulations.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it? A simple congrats?"</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll buy you a drink.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wonder when that’ll be.”</p><p> </p><p>Branch had met Barb at a publishing company he used to work for. Back then, he had been a reporter, her a trainee. She had accompanied him to scenes for a while and taught her about practical affairs: item development and interview tips, from planning approaches to writing articles. It had been a long time since he’d left.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, here they still were.</p><p> </p><p>Now there was nothing he could really do to help. In no time, Barb had become a veteran—apparently skilled enough to receive offers from various publishing companies. If anyone got help at this point, it was always him.</p><p> </p><p>“The manager quit. She's going to study abroad with her husband. So, I'm just saying… why don't you come back?”</p><p> </p><p>He kept silent and gripped his mug tightly. Teal skin turned white.</p><p> </p><p>“I told the boss about you, and he told me to bring in your resume.”</p><p> </p><p>He had started his part-time job to make the money he needed, eventually finding another industry to work at. The salary was rather low, much lower than his previous publishing company. But the bright side was that the job gave him some extra time on his hands, and Branch decided to use that time to translate books. For many years he clung to translating. He made money, rented an apartment. In the meanwhile, his grandmother had died from a heart attack.</p><p> </p><p>After the industry went bankrupt, he roamed around the streets, resume clutched in cold hands. The days he stayed unemployed grew into weeks, and even the income he was receiving from translating endless stories seemed to decrease every second. </p><p> </p><p>He knew his old, tattered resume was still folded up in the pocket of his jumper, and he knew very well that he could just simply hand it over. It would have been a great opportunity.</p><p> </p><p>But his heart said otherwise. If he actually got the job, he’d be giving Poppy over to the hospital caretaker, showing up only on weekends without actually being there for her at every bone marrow extraction.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“You’ll be there for me, right? Until I get better?”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“You kidding me? Of course I will.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t dare break the promise. It was impossible for both him and for her.</p><p> </p><p>He had no experience in writing autobiographies, and was also reluctant to do so. An autobiography transcribed one's own life into words. Thus, ghostwriting itself was a form of fraud. However, he couldn’t possibly ignore the amount of money being offered as a substitute fee. Money was money. Nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>Sixteen thousand dollars. It was enough to cover hospital bills until she was discharged from the hospital.</p><p> </p><p>He started ghostwriting for ten percent of the down payment. The client was a political aspirant doing business and insisted that the manuscript be completed within three months, even though the parliamentary election was more than a year away. <i>He</i> was the one who was in a hurry. People didn’t die just because they couldn’t run for Congress.</p><p> </p><p>It had taken exactly forty-five days. Except for visiting Poppy and his chemotherapy, he would type the manuscript on his laptop day and night. Knowing that the Poppy's life depended on this one job, he couldn't even get himself to sleep. His doctor had tried coaxing him into getting some rest, but Branch knew himself that he was stubborn. When he finished  the manuscript of a thousand five-hundred pages after those forty-five days of interviews and data research, he had lost about twenty pounds.</p><p> </p><p>Branch had handed over the manuscript six days ago. As soon as the review was completed, it was decided that he would receive the rest of the money—and today was that day.</p><p> </p><p>"Ya know, it's rude to have yourself obsessed with your own thoughts when you’re talking to a woman." Barb tapped the table with her knuckles, absentmindedly running her hand through her mohawk. She wrapped her fingers around the mug and chewed on her bottom lip.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes when you’re dealing with a bunch of people, you feel like you’re in a daze. I dunno, you feel like a fool. Some sort of fucking puppet.” Barb glanced back up at him. “And you’re like, the only guy I can think of who can actually cheer me up, but… you’re too complicated to talk to. You know how I hate complicated things.”</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>══════════════════</p>
</div><p> </p><p>“So, how did he like it?”</p><p> </p><p>“The CEO was very pleased.”</p><p> </p><p>Barb glanced towards Branch and gave him a small wink before turning back towards the troll. “That’s great.”</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta say, this article seems much better than the last one.”</p><p> </p><p>It took a second to realize that it wasn’t Branch’s manuscript that he had been talking about, but her articles for the magazine. Barb’s expression stiffened and the tiny smile vanished.</p><p> </p><p>“The manuscript… has it been reviewed?”</p><p> </p><p>The male troll brought an envelope from his desk that contained the manuscript and set it down on the table. "Yes, it has been read and looked over. Very well written... Rather… lyrical. Maybe it's because you used to write poems?” He turned to face Branch.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed as if Barb had first introduced Branch as a poet.</p><p> </p><p>“However…”</p><p> </p><p>The male troll chewed on the end of his newly-lit cigarette, briefly offered one to Branch. He declined. The troll took a long drag.</p><p> </p><p>“It only contained what we said. In other words, you've written only what you have.”</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head at Barb’s words. “No. Autobiographies should contain a special story. That way, the readers will be moved, and that’ll arouse the reader's respect.”</p><p> </p><p>"If it’s written with nothing but truths and the readers aren’t moved, why is it the writer's fault?”</p><p> </p><p>Branch carefully placed a hand onto Barb’s shoulder. “I’d be pleased if you specified on what exactly the problem is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes you need to exaggerate, and if you need to, you have to make up stories that don’t exist. That's what we want. Autobiographies are not a literary work. We don’t need writers or lyricists.”</p><p> </p><p>“I understand.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve completely ignored the basics of autobiography writing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll fix it.”</p><p> </p><p>The troll shook his head. “There’s no need for that.”</p><p> </p><p>“... please, just give me another chance.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve already hired a professional ghostwriter.”</p><p> </p><p>Barb kicked up from her seat and gripped Branch’s wrist, gave it a squeeze. “Look, we don’t give a damn on who you’ve hired—we just need the money.”</p><p> </p><p>“The manuscript fee? From what I know, it’s only supposed to be given once we approve of—”</p><p> </p><p>“You think writing a thousand five-hundred pages for a single manuscript is a fucking joke?”</p><p> </p><p>“In terms of the damage, it's almost as bad as it gets. We've only lost our down payment, haven’t we?”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Killing Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Third chapter up, y'all!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You like chamomile tea, don’t you, Branch?”</p><p> </p><p>There had only been one time since last year that he had been invited for tea by Dr. Biggie: and it had been to tell him that Poppy’s leukemia had relapsed.</p><p> </p><p>“How is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“... Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s nice seeing a young lad enjoy drinking tea as much as I do. Chamomile is very good for your—”</p><p> </p><p>“Mind telling me why I’m here, Doc?”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor cleared his throat, a troubled look etched onto his tired features.</p><p> </p><p>“... we have the results.”</p><p> </p><p>“How much?”</p><p> </p><p>“Twenty-four thousand.”</p><p> </p><p>The malignant leukocyte level at the time of readmission had been sixty-thousand—and ninety percent of them had been leukaemia cells. While undergoing chemotherapy, the number had dropped little by little and had come to a certain point where it didn’t go up nor down. Twenty-four thousand was nearly four times the average level despite all her injections.</p><p> </p><p>“... so I see.”</p><p> </p><p>“The problem here…” Dr. Biggie took off his tiny, thin spectacles, setting them down on the table. “... is that drug therapy and radiation alone have reached their limits.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it that bad?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not necessarily a bad thing, Branch—it just means the current treatment isn’t working anymore. She’s already had a relapse. And we can’t say that this hasn’t happened as much to other patients as well. What I’m saying is, that if we keep going, relapse after relapse is going to put Poppy in a state where even her body won’t be able to take it.”</p><p> </p><p>There it was. A possible death sentence.</p><p> </p><p>He’d heard these kind of things for the past year numerous times, in fact, so many that he should’ve gotten used to them at this point. Nevertheless, as if someone had smacked him on the back of his head, he snapped out of his momentary trance. “No, drug therapy, no radiation—then what in the hair am I supposed to do?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hematopoietic stem cell transplantation. It's often called bone marrow transplants.”</p><p> </p><p>“...”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the best chance we’ve got, Branch.”</p><p> </p><p>Branch knew that this just wasn’t the best chance they had, but also the only chance—somehow, he just knew.</p><p> </p><p>“We can classify hematopoietic stem cell transplants into three categories—”</p><p> </p><p>First, self-transplantation. To collect and replace one’s bone marrow with their very own… and unlikely to work for children or teenagers.</p><p> </p><p>Second, blood-related homologous grafts. If the tissue compatibility antigens matched among siblings, it could be transplanted to a patient—and improbable treatment for a young troll without any sister or brothers.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, vice versa, non-blood-related homologous grafts. To transplant bone marrow that matched the tissue compatibility antigen from another person. The probability of success was lower than that of a blood-related transplant.</p><p> </p><p>“A bone marrow transplant is like a marathon with a long distance to run. You have to go through an excruciatingly painful treatment before receiving the transplant, and for a while after the surgery, it might give the patient a hard time to recover… much harder than chemotherapy sessions. There's also a risk of transplantation itself. But now that the medication has failed, I have no choice but to recommend a transplant. Of course, the first thing to do is to find a match.”</p><p> </p><p>“How painful is the treatment, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>“We're going to be administering ten times the anti-cancer drugs we are than now. Radiation therapy is also subject to a full-body radiation treatment, not just local.”</p><p> </p><p>Poppy was barely able to withstand the current treatment—but ten times of that same amount? It was impossible. No, it was cruel. And the radiation treatment… even if the disease was cured, she would lose her chance of becoming a mother forever.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to shake his head no, but his body didn’t comply. “What the chances of succeeding?”</p><p> </p><p>One thing Branch disliked about Dr. Biggie was how he always cited numbers when he talked about ‘percentages and success rates’. Was it fair to mark the life and death of a person with simply numerical terms? </p><p> </p><p>“The only thing we know is that this transplant is the only chance of Poppy’s recovery. If the new bone marrow is able to adjust inside the new body—we call this an engraftment—and if she’s able to overcome the aftermath side effects, we can kiss that lousy ol’ leukemia goodbye.”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor was implying hope. Actual <i>hope.</i> But being the paranoid troll he was, he couldn’t possibly ignore the pit of utter despair lurking around the corner. If the transplant didn’t work…</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Biggie stared at the small cup of tea sitting on the middle of the table, now presumably lukewarm. “If you give me the word, I’ll ask the bone marrow bank to look for a possible match.”</p><p> </p><p>“What if I don’t agree to this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then we’ll continue the usual treatments.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re saying that I don’t have a choice.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you in advance—bone marrow transplant is quite costly.”</p><p> </p><p>“How much, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>“Depends on whether you have a merger or not… but you should expect at least one hundred ninety-three thousand dollars.”</p><p> </p>
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</div><p> </p><p>The sky was black tranquility married to a poetry of stars. It was the softness that called body and brain to rest and let the heart go to its steady rhythm. Night came as a reward of sorts, a restfulness above to calm the soul.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy watched quietly as Branch sat by her bed on an old wooden chair, chin propped up on his palm as he slowly traced circles on the scratchy, white bed covers. He blinked tiredly, eyes threatening to shut any second. The heart monitor beeped steadily like a metronome. Normally, at this time, Branch would be sitting on top of the small cot located in the corner of her room, fingers dancing rapidly across the keyboard. For some reason, the laptop was nowhere to be seen that night.</p><p> </p><p>“Branch, aren’t you gonna do your work?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm?” Poppy gave him a subtle smile as he lifted his gaze. “Just taking today off… I’m tired.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re always tired.” She giggled and gave him a slight nudge on the arm. He chuckled, and even if it was for just a brief second, Poppy was happy to see him laugh. She sat up to pull him into a hug, wrapping her arms around her best friend’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>She knew how hard Branch worked. There wasn’t a day that went by when she’d wake up in the middle of the night from a restless sleep only to find Branch typing away on his laptop at four in the morning. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Poppy wondered. What did Branch do for fun? Did he even have any <i>time</i> for fun? Probably not.</p><p> </p><p>“... I really wanna meet my friends.” She blurted out, and didn’t know why. For a second, it scared her to think that she might have hurt Branch’s feelings—but he seemed fine.</p><p> </p><p>“They come visit you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I still want to go to hang out with them. Ya know, the park? Laser tag? Festivals? It’s fun. You should come along sometime.”</p><p> </p><p>“To do all that, you’d need to leave the hospital, won’t you?” Branch sighed softly and gently called out her name—he didn’t speak for a long time. Poppy’s hand crawled over the blanket to his right arm, and she gave it a gentle squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>He called out her name a second time before turning her head to speak to her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“... You wanna leave this place?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Poppy couldn’t possibly count the times she had begged Branch to take her away—whenever she brought up the subject, he’d always ignore her, act as if she weren’t there until she dropped the idea for the day. Her heart was beating so fast at the moment, it felt unreal.</p><p> </p><p>She thought fast. About why he had so suddenly changed his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Were the treatments over? Had the hospital finally given up on her?</p><p> </p><p>No, she didn’t need to know about that. All that she did need to know and keep in mind was that he could change his mind again within the next several seconds.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s leave. Tomorrow morning. We’re gonna leave, right?”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t answer until she finally turned away to call it a day.</p><p> </p>
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    <b>
      <i>‘The today you’ve spent in vain is the tomorrow that a man who died yesterday wanted to live so badly.’</i>
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</div><p> </p><p>They were the words scribbled in black ink above the headboard of the hospital bed.</p><p> </p><p>Branch didn’t know who had written them. Didn’t know when. For all he knew, tens of patients before Poppy could have looked up to find those words on the wall.</p><p> </p><p>And as he once again stared back at the simple message imprinted on the rough surface of the wallpaper, he couldn’t help but think of that one person who wrote them down, promising themselves that their today would not be lived in vain. And he wondered: if that person was still keeping that promise, or if they were already dead and gone.</p><p> </p><p>Death. The final epilogue of the story.</p><p> </p><p>Moments of deaths came like one bolting through a door. All the deaths he knew had been so. Two misfire accidents in the military. His grandmother’s abrupt heart attack. His own father, whose death had been quicker than anyone’s.</p><p> </p><p>Branch wasn’t too confident that there was another world beyond death. Poppy seemed to think otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“I wish you’d go to church.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>And she’d always say it with a concerned frown.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“You can’t go to heaven without believing in God—everyone dies eventually. I’m scared that you won’t be able to meet me after you die too.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>It was rather reliving that Poppy had hopes about the afterlife. Because those hopes would either reduce the pain and agony of the present, or at least ease her mind from the fears of parting from this world.</p><p> </p><p>He removed his gaze from the wall and turned back to Poppy.</p><p> </p><p>It had been at dawn in the morning that she had managed to fall asleep. She had been sick all night—her temperature had rose to hundred and four degrees, had difficulty breathing altogether, and had vomited countless times.</p><p> </p><p>She’d take a small sip of water, a single pill… and half an hour later, she’d throw it all up again.</p><p> </p><p>Poppy kept on telling him that she’d be fine as long as she didn’t take any more—but Branch knew that she needed to. He flinched when she released a quiet moan and shifted uncomfortably in bed.</p><p> </p><p>He reached out and carefully took her hand, rubbed his thumb against her pale, sweaty skin. Resting the side of his head on the mattress, he carefully kissed her fingers. Every day she’d ask him to let her leave, to let her be discharged… and every single time, he’d say no with a firm shake of his head. However, it felt as if the day where he’d have to pretend to have given in to the persuading and just cut off all her treatments.</p><p> </p><p>The date of his promised settlement had already passed by, and of course, he had been once again summoned by Mr. Toronto. And even as Branch made his way to the troll’s office, it wasn’t the immediate hospital bills that worried him—it was the money ten times that exact amount.</p><p> </p><p>One hundred ninety-three thousand dollars.</p><p> </p><p>A bone marrow transplant, their only chance of Poppy’s survival. If she didn’t get any  transplant at all, they were done for. But he didn’t even have a way to pay the price for the current hospital bills anyway. It was like he was lost in an endless desert. In a helpless situation where he had to go somewhere, but didn’t have any place to go to. So much for being her ‘so-called guardian’ and ‘best friend’. There he was, one year older than Poppy and legally an adult, putting her life in danger… what was he doing?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he did have to stop his own treatment. He’d last, right?</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>… right?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>It came back to that day when he held the tiny pill on his palm, his father sitting in front of him as he encouraged him to take it. If Branch had known things were ought to end up like this… he knew he would have swallowed and taken his own life.</p><p> </p><p>The thought briefly flashed through his head. A simple rope and a stool would do. But if he did....</p><p> </p><p>No. Poppy needed him. And he wasn’t going to waste himself away like his father had done.</p><p> </p><p>He remembered entering the department of administration.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“We’ll stop all treatments starting from tomorrow. That includes yours.”</i>
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</p><p>
  <i>“I’ll pay the bills in no time, I promise.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Toronto burst out laughing, no doubt of seen sarcasm and disbelief. <i>“That’s what you say every time, Mr. Woods.”</i></p><p> </p><p>A sudden surge of anger burst through him like a rush of adrenaline. <i>“A troll’s life is on the line, and it seems like you’re so desperate to kill them.”</i></p><p> </p><p><i>“Then you should have kept your word.”</i> Toronto snapped, but his voice soon softened. <i>"Put yourself in our shoes for once, son. How long do you think we could wait for the disposal?”</i></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“Please, just a little more time. That’s all I need.”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“I think we’ve given you enough time.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The older troll shook his head. <i>“There’s nothing we can do… you’re gonna have to get yourself a guarantor. Two, actually, who are willing to pay more than hundred dollars in property taxes.”</i></p><p> </p><p>The fact that he needed not only one but two troubled him greatly. He didn’t have too many connections, so finding himself guarantors was going to be a challenge. And with that, he’d also need to take care of Poppy, finish his translation work, and get his chemo session over and done with—he felt like throwing up.</p><p> </p><p>As he left the room, he was barely able to hear Toronto saying that his deadline was in two days. With a shaky exhale, he ran a hand through his hair—clumps of Prussian blue came out tangled between his fingers, much more than he had expected. He fisted the hair and inhaled through his nose. Right. Chemotherapy.</p><p> </p><p>He dragged his bare feet along the halls as he willed himself to keep going instead of collapsing on the spot and bursting into helpless tears.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning. This story is gonna be sad, alright? This is not gonna be a happy ending.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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